Slip
by simply woven
Summary: Nearly two decades since his stint in Mayfield and years since his last relapse, House slips back towards old habits. House/Cuddy, college-aged Rachel. Third installment in the 'Paternity' Universe.
1. Chapter 1

Rachel awoke with a start, immediately confused as to where she was and why. She wasn't in her dorm room at Penn; no, she was home for Winter break. She was on the living room couch, where she must've fallen asleep sometime after her mom went to bed. Her mom. She was asleep in the bedroom on the other end of the house. House? Where was House?

Rachel heard the distinct sound of a key in the lock. That's what had woken her. She hoped it was House. He'd been at the hospital late, she remembered, because a patient needed his full attention. He obviously had his own key. It had to be House. And if it wasn't, well...she was half asleep and she wasn't going to think about that…

She jumped when the door finally swung open and slammed against the wall, and was on her feet heading for the entrance when she heard her dad's low grumbles.

"House! What are you doing?" She whispered harshly, sounding more like her mother than she'd meant to. When she saw how unbalanced he was, her annoyance was replaced by concern. The concern was amplified when he looked up, revealing his glassy eyes. "House? Are you okay?"

"Rach," he grumbled. "What're you doing awake?"

"You're being loud," she responded.

He shrugged with one shoulder, his right arm braced tightly against his body and his hand clutching his cane. He looked like he was about to topple over.

"You're trashed, aren't you?" She asked, stepping closer to him as he swayed. She put her arms out to either side, ready to catch him at the first sign of a stumble. She knew her sixty-five-inch, 120-pound frame wouldn't do much, but she was willing to try.

"Always knew you were smart," he said dryly. His words were sturdier than his body. "Been saying that since you were little."

She watched him attempt to pull his coat off his shoulders without putting weight on his right leg. He wasn't doing very well, and she thought it would've been funny if the potential consequences weren't so horrific.

"Here, here," she said as she moved towards him. She caught his weak glare but looked past it. God, his eyes were unfocused. "Let me help you."

"I'm fine, Rach."

"You're gonna wake Mom up." Rachel chastised, deciding if anything might get him to shut up and comply, it would be his fear of her mother.

She was right on both counts, and House stopped resisting immediately.

"Sit down," Rachel commanded, pointing to the straight-backed chair in the entryway. She knew its position near the front door was an unspoken commission to his disability, and though he hardly ever utilized it, she was suddenly very grateful for its presence.

House objected, shaking his head and wavering, "No, no...couch. Won't get up if I sit there. Couch."

Rachel sighed. He was probably right, but she honestly wasn't sure he'd make it to the couch. Not like this. Though, if she deposited him on the couch, she'd at least be able to leave him there without worrying he'd pass out and fall over.

"Fine, but let me help you," she replied, taking his left arm and draping it over her shoulders.

"Taller than Cuddy," He muttered as they shuffled to the living room. "Not as tall as Wilson."

"I see your powers of observation have remained intact," Rachel replied under her breath. God, she wished that either her mom or Wilson were there to handle this. The couch was just a couple yards away, but House placed more and more weight on her shoulders with every step. Her body trembled.

After sitting House on the couch, Rachel stood over him with her arms hanging at her sides. His jacket had been left in the entryway, but he still had his shoes on. They were a pair of Nike running shoes, the ones with the bright orange soles. She remembered thinking they were heinous when they arrived at their house last summer. Her opinion hadn't changed.

"House, you need to take your shoes off," Rachel enunciated.

He waved her off, instead clasping his hands together underneath his right thigh and pivoting until he was reclined on the leather surface. He then put his hands behind his head, shut his eyes, and leaned back.

Rachel groaned silently. She knew her mom had conceded to House putting his feet on the furniture long ago, but he was supposed to leave his shoes on the ground. She glanced at him again, saw that his eyes were still shut, and bent over his feet; she'd just have to do it herself.

His eyes were still shut when Rachel pulled his second sneaker off, and she decided they'd all be better off if he just stayed there. So, she turned off the muted television, flicked the light off, and went to her bedroom, thinking the whole time that she couldn't remember ever seeing her dad so wasted.

* * *

Between House's chronic pain, chronic insomnia, and chronically erratic work schedule, Cuddy was rarely surprised to wake up alone. It used to bother her, especially when Rachel was young and completely dependent on the two of them. She'd signed up to be a single mother, of course, but after years of co-parenting, it was neither fair nor easy to never know when she'd be on her own or when she'd have House to help. They'd compromised a bit, with House leaving more of the late night and early morning calls to his team, and things became easier as Rachel grew older. But then, once Rachel left for college and was only home a few weeks per year, Cuddy found herself feeling lonely whenever she woke up to an empty bed. So while waking up alone was hardly ever a surprise to Cuddy, it was certainly a disappointment.

What was even more disappointing on this particular morning, however, was discovering House sprawled across the living room couch. There was no reason for him to be on the couch. If his leg had been hurting, he would've slept in the spare bedroom. If his patient was in serious trouble, he would've slept in his office. The only reason he might sleep in the living room was…

Cuddy sat on the coffee table across from House's head. Gently, she reached out and clasped his right wrist, finding his pulse with her fingers. Slow, but relatively steady. A small wave of relief washed over her. She surveyed her surroundings: there were no glasses or bottles in sight, his cane was on the ground nearby, and his sneakers were off. He clearly hadn't gone on a bender right here in the living room. And yet, he couldn't make his way to their bedroom on the other side of the house. There were some missing pieces to this puzzle.

She'd been tempted to rouse him from his sleep when he suddenly twitched. Her fingers tightened around his wrist, and his head turned towards her in response.

"Mm..Cuddy…" He mumbled, his eyes fluttering open.

"Hey," she said softly. Her stomach was still knotted with worry.

"What's...happenin'?" He asked, still blinking through the cobwebs of his slumber.

"I was wondering the same thing," she responded. "Why are you out here?"

House suddenly tensed if he'd been doused with cold water. He clearly hadn't realized he was on the living room couch.

Cuddy's heart sank.

"House? What happened last night?"

* * *

His leg was not, for the first time in a very long time, the first thing he was aware of upon awakening. That alone should've immediately tipped him off to his mistakes the night prior. Instead, it wasn't until Cuddy asked him what he was doing that he realized his current situation: he was passed out fully-clothed on the couch at seven A.M. on a Saturday morning.

He tried sitting up, but was overcome with a wave of lightheadedness. His head felt...full, like it was stuffed with cotton. His mouth was dry, his vision hazy. He would've check his carotid if he'd been confident in his brain's ability to direct his hand towards his neck. Instead, he leaned back and allowed his head to fall onto the pillow behind him. His leg still didn't hurt.

"Are you okay?" Cuddy asked, her voice softer than the tight grip she had on his wrist.

House attempted to move his tongue out of the way, only realizing after a few too many moments that his tongue wasn't actually in the way.

"Pocket," he said, tapping the fingers of his left hand against his leg. He kept his eyes shut as he felt Cuddy reach across his body and slip her hand into his pocket. Even in his hazy confusion, the rattle he heard next was unmistakable.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here's the second chapter of _Slip._ This story is a bit on the angsty side, as some of you may have noticed in the first chapter, but I don't plan on straying too far from my usual easy-going fluff. Reviews are appreciated!

* * *

The house felt surprisingly empty when Rachel woke up around nine A.M. It was quiet, the living room and kitchen were empty. There wasn't even the scent of freshly made coffee that was almost always present in their household. It felt cold, and while the fresh layer of snow outside certainly contributed, it was the absence of her mother's voice or House's music that accentuated it. Rachel migrated towards the entryway. She was just noticing all three sets of car keys hanging on the hook near the front door when she heard quiet murmurs in her mom and House's bedroom.

House. He was so out of it last night. There were just a few potential reasons for his behavior that she could think of.

First might've been his leg. That was least likely, in Rachel's opinion. She'd seen him in severe pain multiple times before, and it usually made him more alert and coherent, not less, like his nervous system was turned on to high alert. Of course, at its most severe the pain could render him incoherent. In those cases, though, just standing upright even with assistance was next to impossible. While his leg probably complicated things last night, that wasn't the main problem.

The second option was exhaustion. She knew House sometimes stayed at the hospital for multiple days at a time. It happened about once per month throughout Rachel's childhood, and she was used to him staggering through the front door in the middle of a Sunday or being passed out in bed on a weekday afternoon after the end of a long case. As of yesterday evening, House had been at the hospital for nearly thirty hours straight...and she knew exhaustion sometimes made her a little loopy...so maybe that had been it?

Overall, though, Rachel was pretty sure he'd been drunk. In her experience, House was likely to drink for the taste: a glass of wine with dinner, a beer or two during a football game, a few fingers of whiskey after dinner. She was sure he also probably drank to get a good buzz, from time to time: a Friday night, after a long case, when he was playing poker with Wilson, Chase, and Foreman. Still, she'd never seen him get so drunk that he couldn't stay upright. But between the physical instability and the grogginess, both of which closely resembled her own experience with inebriation, alcohol seemed the most logical conclusion.

Now standing at the master bedroom door, Rachel thought about knocking. She was just raising her fist when she heard her mom's voice from the other side.

"Where did you get them?"

"Clinic patient."

"You stole them?"

"He stole them from...parents'...cabinet….gonna get rid of them...team's patient crashed. Had them in my coat pocket…" If House had finished his sentence, Rachel couldn't hear it.

"It's okay. It's okay," her mother said so softly that the words were barely audible at all.

Rachel was frozen at the door as she considered her parents' word choice. What 'them' were they referring to? Still at the door, it hit suddenly hit her.

House may have been exhausted last night, but he hadn't been drunk and his leg certainly hadn't been hurting.

House had been high.

* * *

She believed House when he said that he had intended to dispose of the Oxycodone. Fifteen or twenty years ago, she wouldn't have. She would have been hesitant ten years ago. But the shame, fear, and confusion she saw in his eyes...no, he wasn't lying, and this hadn't been premeditated.

It was just a slip.

They had struggled to get him from the couch to the bed while the excessive dose of the narcotic continued to filter through his system. He was lightheaded and woozy, unstable on all fronts. Cuddy had been partially anticipating Rachel to peek out from her bedroom when they took one particularly hard stumble into the hallway wall. She hadn't, though, and they'd managed to get back to the master bedroom without injury or intervention.

Cuddy now sat on the edge of the mattress, one leg tucked under her with her body facing the headboard. House was supine to her right with his head resting on his pillow.

"How are you feeling?" She asked. Her index finger traced invisible designs on the top of his weathered hand. His skin was rough and dry from the harsh winter cold.

"Like I fucked up," he replied. The honesty in his voice made her chest ache. "I fucked up."

"But you haven't relapsed," she assured them both. He may have fucked up, but not catastrophically enough to constitute a relapse. "You slipped."

From firsthand experience and their knowledge as medical professionals, Cuddy knew they could both differentiate between a slip and a relapse.

Before now, he'd slipped twice and had relapsed just once. Rachel had been eight when he'd relapsed. The ultimate trigger had been stress, which had resulted from a mix of his mother's sudden death, being Rachel's primary caretaker while Cuddy was at a conference, and work. Over the course of a few days, he'd steadily reverted back into his old habits, going so far as conning a Vicodin scrip out of a clinic in Trenton. Despite valiant and temporarily successful attempts to hide his actions, Cuddy had caught him, and even though things got significantly worse before they got better, he was clean after a 30-day stint in rehab.

The difference between the couple, small slips and his single relapse was multifaceted. However, Cuddy thought it could be boiled down to the concept of early intervention. If House hadn't allowed himself to be caught after those slips, those isolated incidents could've easily transformed into full blown relapses. If House hadn't passed out on the living room couch with a bottle of Oxy last night, Cuddy thought, then this might not just be a slip. But he had passed out on the couch, whether he'd meant to or not. Now that she knew, they could deal with it together. They could stop it from becoming more than just a slip, from becoming a relapse.

* * *

It wasn't a relapse, Cuddy insisted. It was a slip. Just a slip. She was right, and House knew that. But he couldn't bring himself to verbally agree. After all, the only reason they could say that it was just a slip was because he'd sabotaged his own chance to turn it into anything more.

He hadn't thought about using in a long time. He'd been sober for ten years, save for the one slip that one time that everyone agreed didn't count against him. He'd been on a rotating cocktail of antidepressants, anxiolytics, muscle relaxants, and nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories for ten years. He'd been making regular visits to the three medical professionals who prescribed those medications, too. He had a damned narcotics anonymous sponsor, for Christ's sake. He and Cuddy bickered at work and had sex at home; he helped raise Rachel, went to soccer and lacrosse games, taught her to cook; he hung out with Wilson nearly every Thursday; he trained his fellows, ran his department, and gave periodic lectures at the medical school. His leg still hurt and his screwed up psyche hadn't magically disappeared, but he was dealing.

At least, he had been dealing until that stupid clinic patient showed up with that stupid bottle of stupid Oxy and he was stupid enough to convince himself that he could put it in his pocket until he had a chance to get rid of it. He had 'forgotten' about the Oxy until the case was solved, when the exhaustion of the past twenty-odd hours hit him like a tidal wave. Not even the buzz of a freshly-solved case had been enough to soothe the pounding in his head, the grit in his eyes, or the aching and burning and tightening in his leg. That's when he felt the cylindrical vial pressed against his ribcage. He was instantly catapulted back to nearly twenty years ago, popping the top off the bottle and knocking two capsules back like past two decades had meant nothing. Goddamn, had he been stupid. So, so stupid.

Worse still, was that once he started, he hadn't wanted to stop. He wasn't thinking about Cuddy, or Rachel, or the life he had built with and around them. He wasn't thinking about his sobriety. All he thought about was the drugs, and how good it felt to feel nothing at all.

He couldn't say any of that to her, though. Not right now. He simply allowed his gaze to find Cuddy's. He cradled her hand in his own. She thought it was just a slip, and maybe that would be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Rachel was sitting against the hallway wall when her mother walked out of the master bedroom. She had been lost in a web of complex, convoluted, and incomplete ideas about what was going on ever since she'd realized what had been wrong with House last night.

"Rach?"

Rachel blinked and glanced up at the sound of her mother's voice. "Is he okay?"

"He will be," Cuddy said with as much conviction as possible. She extended a hand to her daughter and gestured down the hallway. "Let's go to the kitchen."

The two women made their coffee and toast then sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Without really knowing where or how to start, Cuddy began.

She had kept House's addiction hidden in a glass closet for as long as they'd been together. In the honeymoon phase, way back when Rachel was only a toddler, his addiction was a negligible part of their relationship. She knew she had seen him at his worst, but in the first few months of their relationship, he had appeared much improved from that dark time. She knew his leg hurt, she knew he was screwed up in about a dozen ways, she knew he had been an addict. She knew all of these things, but on the whole, they were vastly overshadowed by how good he seemed.

Then, suddenly, they weren't.

Neither of them liked to remember the morning Cuddy found blood in her urine and the days that followed. They didn't like to remember how terrified and alone they'd both felt, or how House had slipped back into old habits before visiting her in the hospital. When she first realized what he'd done, Cuddy had been livid. After all, she had sat by hospital bed too many times to think about, yet he was apparently incapable of reciprocating. She was in love with him, but she was prepared to end it, to relegate their relationship back to that of an employee and an employer. It wasn't until she was at his apartment door late one evening when she realized what a massive mistake she'd been making.

House wasn't a _former_ addict. He _was_ an addict.

She was ashamed for allowing the thrill of their long-awaited relationship to overshadow reality. She was ashamed of forgetting the severity and chronicity of House's pain, both emotional and physical. She was ashamed of forgetting that his addiction was a disease, not a choice, and for forgetting all of the horrors he'd experienced because of it.

Despite her intentions to deliver a well-rehearsed speech about the inevitable failure of their relationship that evening, Cuddy ended up revealing to House her sorrow and shame, her hurt and her fear. She had asked questions, too. First, she needed to confirm if he'd used before visiting her in the hospital. House had readily confessed, sounding almost relieved to no longer be bearing the burden of his secret. He'd been ashamed, too, he'd revealed: ashamed that he couldn't make himself see her, ashamed that he'd given up two years of sobriety, ashamed of his fear.

"What was he afraid of?" Rachel asked quietly.

"The same thing I was afraid of, I guess," Cuddy gave her daughter a soft, sympathetic smile. "He didn't want to lose either of us, and I didn't want us to lose him. But we also need to protect ourselves, our relationship...you."

Rachel nodded slowly, considering. After a long moment, she asked, "What happened next?"

Cuddy continued, explaining how things had progressed. First, House had agreed to contact Dr. Nolan. She didn't divulge the circumstances under which House had met Nolan, however. Rachel didn't know about the extent of House's addiction, nevermind his stint in Mayfield when Rachel was just a baby, and Cuddy knew it wasn't her place to reveal that. She thought she was perhaps getting a bit too close to overstepping her boundaries as it was.

The next day, Cuddy had dropped Rachel off with her Aunt Julia and had then driven with House to Nolan's office. She had fully anticipated spending her afternoon in the waiting room while the two men talked; as far as she was concerned, she had just come along for moral support. She'd therefore been surprised when, only twenty minutes into his appointment, House had come back into the waiting area and gestured for her to follow him to Nolan's office.

The following hour had been devoted to discussing the ins-and-outs of the past week. Nolan had asked them both to describe how the events surrounding Cuddy's health crisis had made them feel. Terrified had been the general consensus. They ended the appointment on a positive note, set up a string of appointments - one per week for House alone, one every other week for him and Cuddy - and went back to Princeton. House remained sober for five years after that.

Though Rachel didn't know exactly what was coming next, she trusted her memory and intellectual capacity enough to form an educated guess.

"The spring Nana Blythe died. You weren't here." Rachel revealed a couple small slivers of her memory.

Cuddy nodded solemnly. As much as she hated remembering House's first small slip, she absolutely loathed thinking about the relapse. Rachel was right: House had relapsed late that May. His mom had died suddenly and unexpectedly, just two weeks after she and her husband, Thomas, had visited them in New Jersey. At the same time, Cuddy had been 1,000 miles away, delivering the keynote and moderating multiple panels at an AAHAM conference.

"But he...he didn't….I was fine," Rachel interjected, her statement fragmented. She felt the need to defend House's actions despite the fact that they'd occurred over a decade ago. "He took care of me."

"Oh, sweetie, I know he did," Cuddy said. She knew that House had made it three straight days after learning of his mother's death before finally agreeing to bring Rachel to Julia's. Blythe's husband had insisted on taking care of the arrangements in Florida, and Cuddy was stuck at the conference until Thursday at the earliest, so for the following three days, House had been alone.

And he'd used, multiple times and with abandon. But by the time Cuddy had arrived home late Thursday night, both the side effects and his stash had been hidden expertly. So expertly, in fact, that it wasn't until they arrived home from Florida the following Tuesday that Cuddy had realized what had been happening right under her nose.

Unlike the first time House had slipped, five years prior, Cuddy's initial reaction hadn't been to end their relationship. She wasn't even angry, at least not at House. She was, on the other hand, beyond furious at herself for a whole slew of transgressions. First, for not leaving the conference the moment House called her. Second, for not even considering the possibility of him relapsing. And third, for it taking five whole days of near constant contact with House to realize that he had relapsed. She knew deep down that his relapse wasn't her fault, but that didn't stop her from being saturated by guilt.

Also unlike House's first slip, its effects were much more profound. After over a week of using regularly, of finally feeling immune to his chronic physical and emotional pain that was so amplified by his mother's death, House couldn't stand the thought of getting clean. But after nearly a decade of being mostly sober, he also couldn't stand the thought of staying high. There had been no way a couple months of weekly appointments with Nolan and a dose of couples' counseling would be enough to nip that in the bud. All relevant parties agreed that he needed to go to rehab. 30 days inpatient, and another 30 days of intensive outpatient after that.

"I don't remember any of that," Rachel said. Why couldn't she remember?

"It was a long time ago," Cuddy explained. "You stayed with Aunt Julia during the funeral, came home for a couple days, then you were off to camp for a month. By the time you came back, House was home and doing a lot better."

Rachel remembered that, at least. It had been her very first summer at sleepaway camp up in New England. She'd been excited for about eight months prior, thrilled to finally get to go to the summer camp her older cousins had always told her about. Naturally, she had loved every second she'd spent there. In all the years since, however, she never considered that that summer had been anything but normal for her parents.

"But he was okay after that?" Rachel asked.

"He didn't want to keep using, and he got the help he needed." Cuddy assured her daughter. If Rachel didn't already know about his most recent slip, the one that neither Cuddy nor House ever voluntarily lingered on, Cuddy wasn't going to bring it up. It had just been an anomaly. She proceeded accordingly. "But this is different, Rach. He hasn't relapsed - it was just a slip; a small mistake."

The younger woman understood the difference and nodded. What she still didn't quite understand, however, was what she'd seen last night or why she'd seen it. Her dad was a good person, the strongest and most intelligent man she knew. There had been so many times during her childhood that he'd been under immense pressure, whether at work or at home or both, yet he'd only very rarely resorted to his old ways. What had happened over the past couple days to push him to that point? They had to know what happened so the could fix it, didn't they? She voiced her concerns.

Cuddy shook her head slowly and opened and closed her mouth a couple times before actually speaking. "I...that's not something I know, sweetie. House will tell us when he's ready."

"What should I do until then?"

Her mother's smile radiated a sense of pride that made Rachel feel warm. "Keep loving him, just like you always have."

* * *

A/N: I think this story should have just one more chapter, which will feature a conversation between House and Rachel. And as always, thanks to everyone who has read and/or reviewed so far - it is so very appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

House wasn't sure what time he'd fallen asleep but it was nearing noon when he really started to wake up. His body felt more intact than it had before, and his mind wasn't as numb. He could feel reality's slow and steady approach, still slightly out of reach but close enough to radiate its immense pressure. He felt it as he slid over to the edge of the bed, pushed himself up, and walked to the bathroom.

He fucked up. Not quite as badly as he had after his mother's death, but still pretty badly. Not only had he gotten high, but he had come home high. Disregarding the fact that he'd driven when he'd barely been able to walk, which he knew was probably near the top of Cuddy's list of things to be upset about, he had forced Rachel to deal with him. He hadn't wanted that. He'd never wanted that.

For the nearly-twenty years he'd been a part of Rachel's life, he had always gone out of his way to keep his disability, pain, addiction, mental health, and his general fuckedupness beyond her periphery. She knew he used a cane, that his right leg was a no-fly zone, that there were a handful of things he physically couldn't do, and that it was all because he'd once been really, really sick long a long time ago. It was never a big deal, though, and she never pitied him. He made sure of that.

He did wonder, however, if by hiding these things from Rachel, he may have begun to hide them from himself. Of course he could never truly forget any of his issues. At least not as long as he still had a right leg, a functioning brain, and one of those geriatric, bright-blue pill organizers with six different drugs organized into fourteen rectangular slots sitting on his bedside table. He knew he was screwed up, but thought that maybe, because he was so intent on keeping Rachel in the dark, keeping Cuddy happy, and thereby keeping himself happy, he'd forgotten a few pieces of reality himself. That's probably what had made him feel confident in his ability to pocket a vial of Oxy without keeping any for himself.

And now, after years and years of keeping things from Rachel, she'd been exposed to it all in the span of twelve hours.

What a fool he'd been.

House had just finished dressing when he heard a gentle knock at the bedroom door.

"Come in," he called, though his voice was surprisingly soft. He cleared his throat as the door opened.

Despite having been the one to knock on his door, Rachel had a deer-in-the-headlights expression. House couldn't really blame her.

"Hey," she said quietly after she'd shut the door.

"Hey, kid," House responded casually, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. As much as he didn't want to have this conversation, he knew they had to. He patted the bed next to him and Rachel took a seat. House spoke again before she could say anything, "I'm sorry, Rach. You...you shouldn't have to deal with anything like you dealt with last night."

Her dark eyebrows furrowed at the apology. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. I'm your dad, or whatever, and you should never have to see me like that. I'm sorry." House said. He wasn't angry, per se, but he didn't want Rachel to think what had happened last night was okay or acceptable.

"It really is okay," Rachel said firmly. "I'm serious. I'm not mad, or angry. I might be upset, but only because I'm worried about you. But I'm not mad at you."

A surge of anger flooded House's system, but his voice remained steady. "Don't you realize what you saw last night? I was high, gorked out. I was completely out of touch and wasn't even thinking about you or your mother. All I cared about was the drugs and being high." He exhaled heavily. "You should never, ever have to see me like that."

Rachel maintained an even keel. "Mom and I talked earlier, you know. I already knew this, I think, but she made I understand that addiction is...it's not a choice. It's not like you asked for it to happen, or that you want to be an addict. And last night was just a mistake, just a little slip. You didn't necessarily want it to happen, but it did, and now you have to deal with it."

"Right - _I_ have to deal with it. _Me_. You, on the other hand, should not even be _thinking_ about it."

Rachel's flinch was visible. "But what if I want to?"

House laughed. Nothing about this conversation was funny, but Christ, was Rachel's naivety grating his already-razzled nerves. "You don't want to."

"Yes, I do!" It was House's turn to flinch. "I'm not mad, angry, or disgusted. I don't resent you and I never, ever have. I know I don't say it a lot, because we're just not like that, but I love you. You're the best father I could have ever asked for and, honestly, you're an even better friend. You've done so much for me, and now it's my turn to do something for you. And not because I'm obligated or whatever, but because I love you and I want to."

A heavy silence fell over father and daughter. House felt almost paralyzed by the levity of what Rachel had just said. Regardless of how much her words surprised him, he knew they were pure and honest. He was still working through his own influx of emotions when Rachel spoke again. The volume of her voice was lower, this time, and she spoke more slowly.

"I might be your daughter, or whatever, but I can also be your friend. And you know, I am sorry that you've had to deal with this for so long and that I've never really understood, but I'd be even more sorry if you were too stubborn to let me be there for you now."

House wasn't sure when his little girl had become a mature, albeit slightly idealistic adult, but she had a point. He sighed. "That's...nice of you, Rachel...thank you…" House responded. "Just know that I won't be crying on your shoulder any time soon. Not gonna happen."

"Well thank God for that," Rachel jested. Her laugh truly was like music to House's ears. After a moment, she leaned against his body, rested her head on the edge of his shoulder, and wrapped her arm around his waist. House eased his arm around his daughter and placed a gentle kiss on the crown of her head.

He knew that this conversation was far from over. He still had to talk to Cuddy, and knew he'd have to rehash the whole ordeal over and over again in the coming weeks. His therapist, his psychiatrist, his sponsor, and probably even his pain doctor would have to hear about it. That, of course, was annoying, but it wasn't scary. He knew he had made a mistake and, though it had taken a loving kick in the ass from his 19-year-old daughter to get him there, he was ready to fix it.

House was still holding Rachel when he suddenly realized that his sense of numbness had fully dissipated. Interestingly, he didn't feel like a tightly coiled spring, either. Though the effects of the narcotic had worn off, he wasn't jonesing for another hit. No part of him, mentally or physically, wanted to get high.

He kissed his daughter once more and smiled when her hold on him tightened. She and her mother had been right: it was just a slip.

* * *

That's it for _Slip._ Please stay tuned for more from the Paternity Universe, and definitely let me know if there's any segment of House, Cuddy, and Rachel's lives that you might want to see written. No promises, of course, but I'm open to suggestions.


End file.
